


Every Night You Stay

by rockstarpeach



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bondage, Crazy!Dean, Dark, Dark!Dean, M/M, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 10:13:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockstarpeach/pseuds/rockstarpeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam finds out about Ezekiel and doesn’t take it well.  He decides to leave Dean again and Dean doesn’t take <i>that</i> well.  All Dean wants is to take care of him, whether Sam wants it or not.  This is what happens when Dean finally snaps.</p>
<p>Or, the one where Dean goes crazy and ties Sam up so he can't leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Night You Stay

They were never supposed to end up like this. Dean’s had a plan, he’s pictured it so clearly in his mind, a hundred times. A thousand, over and over like counting sheep. Sometimes things would change, small details, the colour of Sam’s house, how many kids he had, but never, not once, did his future look anything like this.

He supposes he shouldn’t really be surprised, though. When he looks back on it, they never really had much choice. Every other possibility was just make believe.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says, knocking on the door to his bedroom. It’s wide open, always is. Dean never shuts it. “I made burgers.”

He smiles as he holds up the plates, two juicy patties covered with cheese and bacon, lettuce and tomatoes and ketchup. He’d driven to the bakery in town that morning, so the buns are fresh. There’s no deep fryer in the kitchen, but there are stock pots, so sitting alongside the burgers are some pretty mean looking fries, and a couple of pickle spears.

Sam blinks and his eyes shine, twinkle with how wet they suddenly are. He looks like he might cry, but he hasn’t done that in a week. He doesn’t now, either. He just swallows the tears back and sits up straighter, forcing a crooked smile.

“Sure, Dean,” he answers. “Thanks.” His voice is cracked and rough. He hasn’t used it in two days, as far as Dean knows. He didn’t talk yesterday when Dean came in with waffles, then a pizza and a Star Wars marathon. He just curled into his pillow and fell asleep to the warmth of Dean’s hand petting soothing circles over his back.

Today looks like a good day, though.

Dean steps closer to the bed and the chain around Sam’s left wrist clanks when he shifts to make room. It’s not too long, the chain, but not too short, either. It gives Sam enough space to move around – he can sleep comfortably, he can reach his dresser and his closet and his television set and his desk, he can just barely reach the bathroom in the back corner. But he can’t go more a few feet past the foot of his bed, can’t reach the treadmill along the far wall. Sure as hell can’t leave his room.

No, because then he might leave for good. Really leave, once and for all. Neither of them wants that.

Sam makes a quiet little sound of appreciation around his first bite and for just one second, Dean pretends everything is normal again. Sam loves his cooking. Dean takes good care of him. But then Sam remembers he’s not here by choice and his face hardens slightly. He stiffens and he swallows and chases the burger with a fry.

“Could I get something to drink?” Sam asks and Dean grinds his teeth. Sam’s not supposed to ask, he’s supposed to just tell Dean what he wants, expect Dean to get it for him, because of course Dean would, Dean always does. Dean takes good care of him.

Sam’s still skittish. It’s disappointing, but not surprising.

“Beer?” Dean asks. “Or we’ve got some lemonade.”

“Beer,” Sam answers on a shaky breath. “Thanks, beer.”

Dean just nods and goes. He comes back from the kitchen less than a minute later with a six pack, twisting the top off one and handing it over to Sam.

“Thanks,” Sam says again. He takes a small sip, then a bigger one. When Dean opens up his own, Sam pours half his own back in one swallow. Sam’s drinking more these days. Dean doesn’t like it, but he lets it slide, for now.

A few minutes later, when they’re both almost finished he shifts, uneasy and awkward and he clears his throat, looks up at Dean through the bangs that have fallen into his eyes, “Hey, Dean?” he asks, all quiet and timid, like Dean’s a wild animal he’s trying to tame. Fucking hilarious, because it’s the exact opposite of that, really. Sam’s the one that needs taming. “You think you could take this cuff off?”

It’s solid steel chained to the cinderblock of Sam’s wall and it’s jacked up with every ward and potion Dean could find. It’s gonna take more than just a key to open it. Sam’s not going anywhere unless Dean wants him to.

“Sam,” Dean growls, fucking _growls_ so low and harsh that Sam could have missed it if he wasn’t listening for it.

“No, hear me out,” he interrupts. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t mean…” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and lets it out again, slowly. His eyes squeeze shut tight and then open again. “You know I’d never really leave you. Don’t you?”

“But you would, Sam,” Dean says. His voice is unsettlingly steady, even to himself. He’s actually creeped out by how matter of fact he sounds. “You just tried to.”

And that was it, wasn’t it? The final straw. Sam found out what Dean did, found out about Ezekiel hiding out inside his body even though Sam didn’t want it, Dean _knew_ Sam didn’t want it. He found out and he told Dean that was it. He couldn’t take any more, couldn’t live like this, couldn’t stand the lying and the sneaking around and _look at our lives, Dean, god, we can’t do this forever!_.

Sam was walking out on him. Again.

And Dean just… fucking _snapped_.

“No,” Sam tells him, shaking his head. “No, Dean… That’s what I’m saying. Was I pissed? Yeah, yeah, I was. Did I need some space? Of course I did! But would I actually leave you? For good? Dean…” he sighs and he hiccups and his eyes turn wet and they glisten just a little. He’s laying it on a little thick, Dean thinks.

“Don’t try to fuck me over, Sammy,” Dean warns, but even as the words pass his lips, he wants to take them back. They’re too angry, too threatening. He doesn’t want to threaten Sam. He wants to love him.

“I’m not,” Sam insists. “Dean, I swear. I’m not going to leave you. I couldn’t, not for long, anyway. We belong together. I know that. But please.” It’s the begging that breaks Dean’s heart. Sam knows that, the fucker. “Please, Dean. Let me go. I can’t do my job, I can’t be there for you, if I can’t leave this room.”

Dean looks at Sam, looks down at the two soggy fries left on his plate and looks back up.

He takes a breath and shakes his head.

“Sorry, Sammy.”

Sam sighs and pushes his plate away, lies down and closes his eyes. Fighting won’t do him any good, Sam knows that by now. Dean takes both of their dirty plates into the kitchen, quietly. He’ll wash them later, he thinks, tossing them into the sink before he heads back to Sam.

No, this was never supposed to be how they ended up.

Dean was supposed to go out years ago, supposed to leave Sam behind to find a girl and a home, give up the life and be _happy_. Hell, he even wanted to.

His deal, his soul for Sam’s life and that was supposed to be it, the end, Sam’s happily ever after and Dean’s eternal damnation. It didn’t work. Nothing works and Dean’s never been all that strong when it comes to family. He’s selfish, always has been.

And he’s tried, over the years. He’s tried to let Sam go, he’s _done_ it, he’s _told_ Sam, said it was okay, that he should leave, that if he can do better than what Dean gives him, he should go get it. More than once, he’s given Sam the chance to get out, to leave him, to find what makes him happy and hold on tight. Hell, once he even told Sam to go because Dean couldn’t stand to look at his face for one more second without punching it, but it still counts.

He’s never meant it, not really, but he said so anyway. Because he loves Sam, more than anything in the world he loves Sam and Sam’s happiness means way more to Dean than his own ever has.

But Sam keeps coming back. Never fucking fails, every single time he gets up the balls to set Sam free, Sam comes back. Changes his mind, tells Dean he needs him, they need _each other_ , they’re a team. And Dean falls all over again, shattered heart mending and fragile and put together all out of place because there’s hope inside, where there shouldn’t be.

Hope gets you nothing but fucked twice as hard.

Sam runs and runs, claws and kicks and rails against Dean’s plans, against the way they live. He can’t live like this forever, he says. He wants a normal life, when it’s all over. He says. He says, until Dean _lets him go_ and then Sam comes running right back. Like Dean’s spent his entire fucking life chasing Sam around the playground pulling his pigtails, trying to get noticed and just when he’s given up, Sam finally smiles at him and holds his hand.

Like it’s a goddamned game. 

But it’s not a game, it’s their _life_ and despite all evidence to the contrary, Dean’s only a man. He can only take so much, he can only be ground down so many times before he loses his shit.

And doesn’t Sam know? Hasn’t he learned by now? When he does things like that, when he chooses Dean, when he _begs_ Dean to come back, it means that Dean knows. It means he knows that Sam wants him, even if he says he doesn’t. It means Dean’s allowed to show up out of the blue and tear him away from a girl and an education and a promising future. It means he’s allowed to guilt him into staying, it means Dean can beg and shout and _hurt_ Sam when he tries to leave, because he doesn’t want to go, not really.

He’s only saying it to get Dean’s attention. When Sam says ‘I want to leave you’, he really means ‘make me stay’.

Dean comes back from the kitchen and sits down next to Sam on his bed. Sam doesn’t move, so Dean rolls into him, left arm curled around Sam’s shoulders, right hand flat on Sam’s naked stomach.

Sam hasn’t worn a shirt since he’s been chained up – Dean hadn’t planned it that way, but he’s not complaining – and he’s been switching between whatever clean shorts or sweat pants that Dean leaves in his dresser. Today, it’s a pair loose cotton sleep pants. Dean plays with the elastic waist, tracing his fingers along the edge and smiles when Sam’s stomach flutters, when he hisses and relaxes and whimpers just a little.

He hadn’t planned on this, not today, not when he knows all Sam’s thinking about is how to convince Dean to set him free. But all that skin, the way his waist narrows above the groove of his hipbone, right there where Dean can just skim his fingers across… he can’t help it. He can’t ever not touch Sam, if he has the chance. Not anymore.

And the way Sam always reacts, how his body responds to Dean’s touch, Sam can’t fake that. Dean needs it, needs to hear what Sam’s body is saying, needs to believe it’s the truth, because with his words, Sam lies.

“You don’t have to tie me up for this either, Dean,” Sam tells him. “I don’t want it if I’m your prisoner. Let me go. Let me go and I swear, we’ll have such a good time.”

No. No that’s not Sam. That’s not what Sam sounds like, that’s not what Sam says. That’s not Sam making those promises, that’s a desperate man saying whatever it takes to get away. Dean’s never _needed_ to tie Sam up for this, that’s true. Sometimes, though, he’d done it just for fun.

“You know I can’t,” Dean tells him. He places a soft kiss to Sam’s neck, just behind his ear and he eases Sam over onto his side, so Dean can spoon up behind him. “Please, Sammy, don’t ask me to. Not right now.”

“Dean…” Sam whispers, voice cracking again, slightly. Dean slips his thumb under the waistband of Sam’s pants and slides them down over his hip, edge of his nail tracing lightly along the skin of Sam’s thigh. Sam sucks in a sharp breath and shudders, lifts slightly so Dean can work his pants all the way down to his knees.

Sam’s fingers twitch, his hips buck slightly when Dean’s warm palm cups his dick, grasps and kneads until Sam starts to get hard. He doesn’t touch Dean, though Dean can tell he wants to. If this was two months ago, if Sam wasn’t his prisoner, if things were different, Sam wouldn’t be able to stop himself. 

It’s one of his favourite things about Sam, how he gives in to this so easily. Or, how he used to.

“You’re safe here, Sam,” Dean tells him, curls his fingers into a fist around Sam’s shaft and starts to pump. “You don’t need to go anywhere. You’re safe. I’ll take good care of you.”

Sam breathes deeply, shaky on the way in, out again slowly. Dean lets go of him for as long as it takes to tug his own cock out of his pants. It’s hard already, slick at the tip with pre-come and he thrusts his hips forward, sliding it along the crack of Sam’s ass.

Sam lets out a tiny groan when Dean brings his hand back, thumb and forefinger making a tight ring right under Sam’s cockhead. He still doesn’t move to touch Dean, but he carefully relaxes his entire body, leaves it open so Dean can take care of them both.

“You like that, Sammy?” Dean asks, when he sets up a slow rhythm against Sam, rocking so his cock slides between Sam’s ass cheeks, slow and easy. It’s not dirty talk, he really wants to hear Sam say that he likes it. He knows Sam does, of course, and Dean will give it to him even if he can’t tell Dean it’s what he needs, but Dean hasn’t actually heard him _say_ it in way too long.

Tonight is no different. Sam stays quiet save a few little whimpers when Dean twists his wrist just right, when the head of his cock catches and drags across Sam’s rim. It’s okay.

It’s okay, because Sam throws his head back bucks forward a few minutes later, coming hard over Dean’s fingers. Dean follows him seconds later, heart pounding as he grunts, covering Sam’s lower back with his spunk. He looks down, watches the tip of his cock disappear between Sam’s cheeks again, sliding much easier now, spreading the jizz around.

He groans deeply, lets out a satisfied breath and curls tighter around Sam. He tilts his head so he can kiss away the tear that’s worked its way down the side of Sam’s face. He traces the path with the tip of his nose and Sam’s eyes slam shut, tight.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” he says, but Sam doesn’t answer.

It’s okay because Sam wants to stay, even if he pretends he wants to go.

It’s okay because when Sam says ‘no’, Dean knows he really means ‘yes’.

They were never supposed to end up like this, but here they are, anyway. Together, for the rest of their lives. Dean knows what he's doing is wrong, but it's what Sam wants. It’s Dean job to make sure Sam stays, for both their sakes.

Hasn’t Sam learned by now? You don’t ever tease the creepy stalker by making him think he has a chance. He’ll take it.

END


End file.
